


An Ode to Perfection

by SuburbanSun



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Butts, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Nebulous Well-Adjusted Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: Michael’s a little distracted. But when the distraction in question is his boyfriend’s perfect ass, can he really complain?
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 27
Kudos: 158





	An Ode to Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> This might be crack (no pun intended). All blame/credit goes to the Junkyard.

If someone had asked Michael a year ago where he’d be spending his Friday nights, he might have said the Wild Pony. But would he have guessed he’d be spending them playing pool with Kyle Valenti?

Not in a million years.

There’s a lot about his life right now that past-Michael wouldn’t have predicted, though. Like the fact that the man rounding the corner from the bathroom is finally, unquestionably, his. 

“Hey Alex, get that cute butt over here!” Valenti shouts across the bar, chalking the tip of his pool cue. “It’s your turn to break.” Alex just rolls his eyes and holds up a finger, then leans on the bar to get Maria’s attention for a refill. 

Michael glares across the pool table. “That’s my boyfriend’s cute butt you’re talking about,” he grouches. “Why are you noticing his butt, anyway?”

Valenti looks up at him from where he’s racking the balls. “What? I may be straight, but I still have _eyes_ , Guerin.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe keep those eyes to yourself.” Alex returns from the bar before he can say anything else, handing him a beer and pecking a kiss to his cheek. 

“What’d I miss?” 

There’s a shit-eating grin on Valenti’s face, but Michael just says, “Nothing.” He does make a point to stand behind Alex as much as he can for the rest of the game, however.

When the weather’s good, and he has an afternoon to spare, Michael likes to sit on the porch at the cabin and strum the guitar. It’s better when Alex is home and lounging in the rocking chair next to him, but Buffy makes for decent company, too. She’s sprawled just beyond the porch in a patch of sunshine, and Michael is idly strumming to the rhythm of her deep, even breathing.

Back in high school when he played, it was all music, no lyrics. The chaos in his head wasn’t the kind that could be put into words, and he didn’t see himself as the poet type, anyway. That was Max’s highly embarrassing thing, not his.

Lately, though, he’s been noodling around with a lyric or two. Ever since he’s been able to play the guitar again, he’s been itching to write Alex a song— even before they got back together, if he’s honest with himself. He hasn’t committed anything to paper quite yet, but there are a few fragments floating around his head, and as a melody begins to emerge from his aimless strumming, he starts to sing, his voice quiet and low.  
  


_You stole my heart, you stole my notes right after class_

_I longed to kiss your face, your lips, your hands, your—  
  
_

He strums a dissonant chord and chuckles. Not exactly the sweet love song he hopes to write. He shakes his head, then starts to strum again, thinking.  
  


_We’ve been on this road so many years_

_Fought through darkness, fought through fear_

_Now in this moment, we’re finally here_

_And I can grab your gorgeous—_

  
Michael stops playing, and the change is abrupt enough that Buffy raises her head to look at him. He shrugs.

“I don’t know what to tell you, girl. It’s like every lyric I can think of leads back to your dad’s ass.” It isn’t necessarily a _bad_ thing, he decides. And Alex deserves a whole catalog of songs, so maybe a few of them can be odes to his various perfect body parts. But for this very first one, Michael would rather channel Max’s maudlin Medieval poetry than Baby Got Back.

Buffy puts her head back down, and Michael adjusts his fingers on the neck of the guitar. He puffs out his cheeks in a long exhale, then resumes playing.  
  


_I’ll take you to the mountains_

_I’ll take you to the beach_

_I’ll show you the seven wonders_

_If you show me your juicy, golden—_   
  


Okay, that one might not even be suitable for the B-side. Michael sighs, then carefully sets the guitar down to lean against the cabin wall. Buffy heaves herself up with a yawn and trots up the porch steps to make herself available for ear scritches. Michael rocks in his chair as he pets her soft fur. 

“This is all Kyle fuckin’ Valenti’s fault, you know,” he tells her. She just pushes her head into his hand, wholly unimpressed. 

A couple of days later, he’s down in his bunker hunched over one of the work benches with sets of schematics haphazardly stretched across the surface. He rubs his tired eyes— the calculation he’s been working on for at least an hour just isn’t making any sense. 

Maybe it’s time to switch gears.

He huffs out a sigh, and casts his gaze over to the console, uncovered and gleaming even in the low light. Eyeing it thoughtfully, he shifts the papers in front of him until the theoretical ship design is on top, and starts to trace his pencil over its familiar shape. 

He’s not trying to leave the planet— not for good, anyway. Not anymore. But it would be cool to have the option to leave Earth’s atmosphere for a quick joyride here and there. He could even take Alex on an intergalactic vacation someday. ( _Maybe even a honeymoon_ , whispers the voice in the back of his mind that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.) 

Michael shakes himself out of _that_ particular line of thinking and refocuses on the ship design in front of him. Only, as he zoned out, his pencil seems to have drifted, arcing out a pair of crisp curves, straighter lines leading downward, even a little shading for muscle…

He’d know that ass anywhere.

He lets his head fall forward to bang against the table, and accepts that he won’t be getting anything productive done this afternoon.

Later, he’s lounging in the living room of the cabin sipping a beer and scrolling on his phone. He’s got a pot of pasta boiling on the stove, a Bolognese sauce simmering beside it.

“Something smells good,” Alex says as he lets himself in the front door after work. “You cooked?” 

Michael shrugs one shoulder, setting his phone down on the sofa beside him to focus his attention fully on Alex. “Ended up with some extra time, thought you’d be hungry.” 

“I am. I was just going to make a sandwich or something.” He sets his laptop bag down and heads for the kitchen after a quick detour to the couch to drop a kiss to Michael’s curls. “This looks way better,” he calls from the other room. 

“What’s left on the timer?” 

“Uh— four minutes,” Alex answers. Michael narrows his eyes and concentrates, and Alex lets out a delighted laugh. “That’s one way to do it,” he says, as the wooden spoon stirs the pasta, telekinesis-style.

Smiling to himself, Michael picks up his phone again and swipes to unlock it. Before he can open anything, Alex appears in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, brows knitted together. 

“Uh, Guerin?” He holds up a piece of paper. “Why is there a drawing of an ass on my fridge?” 

Michael grins. He’s pretty proud of that picture, actually. He spent a little time perfecting it before he left the bunker, and hey, what else do you do with art that deserves displaying besides stick it on the refrigerator door?

“Drew it for ya, Private. You should recognize it; it’s yours.” 

Alex’s brow somehow manages to furrow even more. “I should rec— I don’t exactly spend a lot of time looking at my own _butt_ , Guerin.” 

“You’re missin’ out,” he says with a leer. Alex fixes him with a look, then turns back to the kitchen. Michael does hear the sound of magnets against metal, though, and settles back on the sofa with the pleased thought that Alex is keeping his prized artwork on full display.

Michael yawns, rolling over in bed and reaching out for Alex. When he finds only empty sheets, he cracks an eye open; he knows he won’t have gone far. 

Sure enough, Alex is standing just across the room in front of the small closet, hair still shower-damp. He’s already got his prosthesis on, and he’s pulling on a pair of jeans. They’re supposed to meet Max, Isobel, Liz and Kyle at the Crashdown for breakfast, and Michael apparently slept later than he thought. 

“Mm,” Michael groans. “No, not those, wear the other ones, the pair that’s a little frayed at the knee.” His voice is still thick from sleep, and Alex looks at him over one shoulder, an amused smile playing at his lips. “They do wonders for your ass.” He tucks his arm up under his pillow, then adds, “Not that it needs the help, obviously.”

Alex throws up his hands, rounding the bed to perch on the edge of it and look down at Michael. He’s still shirtless, and though he’s managed to get the inferior pair of jeans on, he hasn’t yet zipped or buttoned them. Michael admires the view. 

“Okay, be serious— what’s the deal with you and my ass?” 

Michael chuckles into the pillow. “I told you, it’s a really great ass.” 

“I mean, I get that.” Alex spares a glance for the lower half of Michael’s body, obscured by a thin cotton sheet. “Yours isn’t so bad, itself.” Michael smirks, and Alex continues, “But you seem particularly fixated lately.” 

Michael shrugs. “It’s an objectively great ass, baby, don’t argue with me. But I don’t know.” He rolls over onto his back, one hand coming up to run through his curls as he stares at the ceiling. “I guess, really, it’s just because it’s _yours_.”

It takes a second before he can look over at Alex, and when he does, he sees his eyes have gone soft. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Wrinkles his nose and squeezes his eyes shut tight, like he’s embarrassed. It’s maybe the cutest fuckin’ thing Michael’s ever seen. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but…” Alex begins.

“Yeah?” 

Alex cracks open one eye. “My ass is all yours.” 

Michael barks out a surprised laugh, then reaches out with both hands to grasp Alex by the hips and pull him back down into bed. He lets himself be pulled, a little smile on his face and a tint of pink to his cheeks. 

“That’s great news, baby,” Michael says, dropping a kiss to each flushed cheek. “Because I’ve got big plans for it this morning.” 

Alex makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Oh yeah?” Michael doesn’t answer him, just draws him in for a kiss, slow and dirty.

They don’t end up making it to breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to hang out on Tumblr? I'm [unbreakablejemmasimmons](https://unbreakablejemmasimmons.tumblr.com/) over there!


End file.
